Yanny Mac - Bungled

  Dear Emily My cat has started grooming excessively. She has always groomed, but now she over-grooms in my opinion. She lost her older sister earlier in the year. They always groomed each other, but the youngest was more willing. I would not mind so much about the excessive grooming, were it not for the fact that as soon as she has finished, she goes to bed. She seems to get all dolled-up, then decides to stay-in. Should I be worried? Yours A Worried Cat Owner. ***Photo: Not My Cat. (I would never buy that colour yellow towel, due to a complicated but efficient washing-cycle).

  My Chromebook automatically updated itself like a lovelorn teenage onanist. It has furnished me with Gemini , Google's A.I. chatbot for those who chat to bots. It's a treasure trove of ideas for writers, bloggers, and form-filling eejits. It's perfect for people like me. So why do I feel that we're all going down a homogeneous tunnel of analogous similitude, soon to be SO ALIKE, that we're all completely indifferent to difference ? Disappointed to see that the TikTok handle of 'Homogemini' has been taken. No posts yet. Even more disappointed to learn it's a term used by tertiary oil engineers dealing with zwitterionic sulfobetaine surfactants, when processing and purifying soluble proteins in the cosmetics industry. I fear I will never consult a book again.

  I often feel a wee bit finitude after weekends such as the one that has passed. For me it’s the end of tormented Lent and the beginning of a long period of self-absorption. But the finish-line is in sight for those indentured in Ramadan. And for neo-pagans it’s the start of a bacchanalian feast. A time of fecundity and fertility, way beyond my current pay-grade; ribald excesses now more a disquieting fear, than an inalienable right. The collective outpouring of unease over the self-appointed monarchy’s ill-health seems to galvanise our free presses, whilst our less fortunate friends & relatives suffer silently, albeit within the same ‘fight’. The papal paschal rallying cries, and the surefire yet demure sermons of ecclesia anglicana lead us through this period of self-indulgence and added-daylight. We are prone to rejoicing when fuel bills go down, all the while that water bills and bed & board continue their great ascent. And regardless of our efforts, ultimate power ...

  I swear that I will pay true allegiance to democracy and universal suffrage, where leaders are chosen by their people, and not by accident of birth. I swear to no longer inflict these ludicrous positions of soft power & obscene wealth on anyone, out of a false sense of patriotism or national pride. I promise to offer the Windsor/Saxe Coburg Gotha family a decent and fair upbringing, away from intrusive media as any citizen would expect. I swear my allegiance to the elderly woman with the even older dog who I see everyday, struggling to walk, and aided by nothing more than a shopping trolley. I promise to give people such as this compassion, assistance, a sensible income, warmth, company and sustenance. I promise not to invoke a Dunkirk Spirit of flag-waving, anthem-singing, and blind sycophancy, in the vain hope that that will suffice. I swear allegiance to a god that knows no sectarianism, no war, no antipathy to others, no doctrine, no liturgy, no defender of any faiths, an...

I talk to myself. I make out I'm talking to my cats and I suppose in essence, I really am. But they can't hear me. They can, but they don't fully understand. They comprehend a few words, but a lot of the socio-economic terminology or philosophical idioms are largely lost on them. I talk to myself. I have actual  conversations with one of my cats where I get all demonstrative, and spell-out words phonetically so that she might reply. I often find myself laughing at myself thinking how stupid myself has become. The cat smiles at me. (With her eyes). After I've cleaned up the daily litter mess, we often settle down to a Radio 4 play or a wireless documentary on depleting fish stocks. I'm never sure if either of the cats are totally content with my listening, but the odd cuddle and a drawn-out purr often quell the paranoia in my mental backyard. When I turn out the lights, Pig buries herself into my broken and twisted torso. Trousers checks all the locks on the doors, t...

  It’s May 1st 2023. A Rimmel-bronzed woman with a shaved head hidden under a Hermes scarf, strides into the British Embassy in Muscat. She’s in good health and in her early 60s. She’s come to claim her crown. Dodi Fayed is dead, and she is the rightful Queen of England. And she’s tired of ‘Saudi Living’. Join Diana Frances Spencer on a madcap & zany adventure, as she leaves Lord Lucan’s desert hide-out, and drives across North Africa - encountering TikTok zombies, James Corden, flat-earthers, and an Eritrean Bake-Off like no other - in a car chase against time, hoping to get to the Tower of London and claim those jewels for her rightful heirs. Shit just got real! And the Princess of the People is more than a little pissed-off! Unbelievable!  - The Daily Mail. Makes you think! - Hello. Big Tits & Creme Eggs UP HIS ARSE!   - Sunday Sport.